Mythos
by TheEight0fHearts
Summary: R for covering my butt. Dark themes, not graphic, but I don't want to be yelled at. Kind of a walk through Voldemort's psyche.


Later, several Death Eaters found themselves perplexed. Wondered why he had bothered to take precautions, why he had bothered to prepare the boy. But none had dared to ask.  
And of course they didn't understand, the man in question thought with less bitterness than contempt. How could they? They knew nothing of the beauty of suffering. Pitiful lackeys. Pathetic followers, the lot of them. They were not artists. They were butchers, hired for convenience and loyalty.  
Voldemort watched the boy with little of anything in his gaze. Little interest. Little satisfaction. Little attention at all, in fact. Asleep now, dreamlessly, his breathing had centered. The wretched whelp.  
A grim smile bled through his lips, staining the sharp, angular features, that even now seemed serpentine. He had thought himself so clever, hadn't he? But even a river of hope is no match for an ocean of blood.  
Age and treachery would triumph over youth and skill every time, wasn't that right?  
It contorted slightly with the thought, his smile, like twisted metal that glints from the belly of a flame. He wondered if he was unhinged, sometimes, Voldemort. He wondered if the power or the decades or setbacks or the hatred had scarred and scratched at the eyes of his psyche until it had finally consented to a quiet death without his noticing.  
Well, even if it had, wasn't that all the better, then?  
Sunset blood eyes realized that they still held the boy beneath them, and suddenly regarded their subject with more something than before. More interest. More attention. More satisfaction, after all. The salty sandy trail left behind when the tears had died remained even now, so much later. The sight pleased him. The reminder of a well-executed check mate.  
His children didn't understand. His stupid, stupid children. How they shamed their magnanimous father. With their choppy hands and their clumsy thoughts and their fumbling attempts to please him.  
Even Lucius, the so whispered about, the so well respected, even Lucius, the so vile, the so cruel. Even Lucius, the dolt. He fumbled just like the rest of them. Only Lucius was bolder in his fumblings. Only Lucius made no secret of his loyalties. The idiocy of his misplaced courage angered his master, the lord of all those bearing his mark.  
And then again, the audacity of his misplaced fidelity pleased him more than the anger did.  
But even Lucius was no artist.  
Could it be, that he, Voldemort, had not one sculptor, one painter, one poet among his ranks. One man who could create suffering the way it was meant to be created. One woman who could shape obedience from defiance the way it was meant to be shaped. With care, and as much truth as lies and close attention to ironic detail.  
Mmn. The dark lord loved irony. Almost as much as he hated it.  
That damnable boy. Another wretched whelp. That setback, that hatred. His twisted, lovely soul mate. No matter. All in good time, that boy would be his as well.  
Sometimes, there simply was no satisfaction in simply killing.  
He contemplated the tears still caught in this whorish vigilante's exceptional lashes. They were dried and dead like their kinsmen, but their presence was undeniable, and he found himself enthralled with them. As much in an attempt to calm his seething temper as to enjoy their faded beauty.  
How perfect the moment had been, when those tears had finally stopped threatening. How beautiful, the moment they had finally made good on threats. When the touch and the words and the gentle, vicious violation had finally, finally shattered his annoying resolve and exposed him. A tender, trembling child. One he would take and make his own, because he had always had a soft spot for children.  
It was that skill that he desired in someone other than himself. That ability he craved in a follower, in a servant. The way he had whimpered and sobbed and lain so obediently still.  
He liked obedience, Voldemort. Even if it was only because of force.  
But he liked artistry, too. It grew so tedious, telling his death eaters what to do.  
He looked down at the boy sprawled beside him. He was captivated by no need to touch. By no desire to stroke dark hair from the child's face. But he did so anyway. Tracing the lines, the subtle firmness of flesh- concealed bone, the contours of his face.  
A pity that they couldn't understand. The lack of physical pain had resulted in a permanent wound to the intangible. An ache and a shame that would bleed forever. Knowledge so annoyingly pristine it would haunt the child into eternity.  
If he made it that far, after all.  
He had a soft spot for children, Voldemort. And the boy was his. Someday they'd understand. Or he'd trade them in for those who could. No matter where he went from here, no matter if he escaped or returned or lost his mind tomorrow, he would always be his. The seeds of despair had been locked into his heart. And there would be no reclaiming them.  
Perhaps someday, he would be an artist. 


End file.
